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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961074">Hairfluenza</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed'>Cinaed</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Best of Carolina The Teenage Witch [35]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red vs. Blue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Sabrina the Teenage Witch Fusion, Developing Relationship, Illnesses, M/M, Magic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:54:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,751</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961074</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The flu season is hard on everyone.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Agent Carolina &amp; AI Program Epsilon | Leonard Church, Agent Carolina &amp; The Director | Dr. Leonard Church, Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Best of Carolina The Teenage Witch [35]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1183436</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hairfluenza</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Second to last episode of the season! If you think this one's long, just wait until the season finale. :D </p><p>Thanks as always to Aryashi for looking this over and to folks in chat for helping me with fake magical illnesses.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Simmons stares at the ground. He’s aware of Doctor Church’s expectant expression, but for once his imagination is failing him.</p><p>It’s been an entire week of flower spells, starting simple with daisies and moving through to the more exotic. Before that it was a series of citrus trees. Simmons has enough orange juice to last him for <em>months</em>. Now he’s expected to create yet another flower in bloom, when his notebook is burning a hole in his pocket. It’s all he can do not to take it out and show Doctor Church a few spells he’d like to try.</p><p>But he knows the answer he’ll get, knows the exact slant of Doctor Church’s eyebrows and the dry, slightly condescending note in his voice. “A newfound ability deserves time and proper study. We shouldn’t rush. We will learn your limits in time.”</p><p>Simmons bites back a sigh. The only instruction Doctor Church has given him is that he should create a flower that he’s never seen before. He read a book about Hawaii last year, after Grif mentioned it. He squints, trying to remember the name of one of the flowering plants.</p><p>He points at the patch of dirt and recites, “Let’s put on a rare flower show and let Hawaii’s <em>Hibiscus waimeae</em> grow.”</p><p>Despite his frustration, the tell-tale tension in the air still makes him smile in anticipation. A second later the spell brings the bush bursting from the earth. Buds appear, and then the white flowers, the red stamens a bright color within the blossoms. The scent is very faint, just a slight sweetness to the air.</p><p>Simmons is pleased with himself, even though he knows to expect only a nod of acknowledgment and the instruction to replicate the spell twice more from Doctor Church. Maybe he can collect a few of the flowers, surprise Grif with them.</p><p>He dismisses the idea immediately, and then forgets about it entirely as Doctor Church sneezes.</p><p>Simmons jumps. He feels stupid for being so surprised, but he doesn’t think he’s heard Doctor Church sneeze or cough during any of their lessons. Maybe he’s allergic to the flowers? Do witches have allergies?</p><p>Thankfully Doctor Church looks distracted. He plucks a handkerchief out of thin air and sneezes again into it. There’s an irritated crease in his forehead. “Ignore me and proceed.”</p><p>“Uh, if you’re allergic--”</p><p>Doctor Church’s expression halts the rest of Simmons’ offer of antihistamines and suggestion that they start over and do a different spell. Simmons hastily refocuses. “Right. Just, uh, duplicate the incantation two more times, then?”</p><p>Frustration and disappointment churn in his stomach when Doctor Church nods. He understands Doctor Church’s desire for trial and study, but this slow pace is ridiculous. Just because Doctor Church rushed a spell and messed it up so badly he accidentally created a person doesn’t mean he should make Simmons stick to just the basics. <em>He</em> won’t screw up.</p><p>Simmons bites back a sigh. He points again.</p><p>“Let’s put on a rare flower show and let Hawaii’s <em>Hibiscus waimeae</em> grow.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“What was the name of the treaty that ended the Spanish-American War?” Carolina asks. She keeps the flashcard hidden. The last time she and Church had studied together, she’d realized halfway through that he’d silently magicked up a mirror behind her to cheat.</p><p>Church shrugs. He looks bored, slouching on the couch as he mumbles, “Spain, so...Madrid?”</p><p>“No. Take this seriously.”</p><p>“Why do I need to know American history?”</p><p>Carolina resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Because you’re taking an American history class and don’t want to fail,” she reminds him. “Unless you just really love eleventh grade.”</p><p>“They wouldn’t hold me back over one class,” Church protests.</p><p>“So you really love summer school,” Carolina says.</p><p>He makes a face. “Ugh. What was the question again?”</p><p>“What was--” There’s a familiar flash of golden light. Carolina winces, and then represses another wince in anticipation of yet another pop quiz from Doyle. “--the name of the treaty that ended the Spanish-American War?”</p><p>“Oh! The Treaty of Paris,” Doyle says cheerfully. When both Carolina and Church stare at him, he blinks. His smile turns uncertain. “Then again, perhaps it’s only obvious when you were there at the time. My student that year was studying at the Lycée Saint-Louis-de-Gonzague.”</p><p>“Awesome,” Church says without enthusiasm.</p><p>“But I’m afraid I’m not here to help you with your mortal schoolwork, as fascinating as that sounds!” Doyle turns a wide smile upon Carolina. “Congratulations, Carolina! You no longer need to focus on incantations.”</p><p>Carolina brightens, and then tries to kick Church under the coffee table as he grins and says, “Grey and Kimball will be relieved. Carolina is definitely not a poet.”</p><p>“Oh, and you are?” Carolina shoots back.</p><p>“Well, we’ll see,” Doyle says. “James, you are officially on your incantation only week!”</p><p>Church’s smirk drops off his face.</p><p>Carolina grins. “Do you need my rhyming dictionary?” she asks sweetly, amused by the annoyed look he gives her.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Church looks like he regrets it as soon as he says it, because Doyle claps his hands together and says, “Now for your pop quiz! I thought we could combine your homework and spellwork, so I need you to summon the original copy of the Treaty of Paris.”</p><p>“Seriously?” Church says.</p><p>“Yes,” Doyle says with a firm nod.</p><p>“Ugh, fine.” Church frowns. He crosses and uncrosses his arms a couple times, squinting into space, and finally says, “Since my quizmaster is being needy, send us that amazing treaty.”</p><p>Carolina starts laughing even before his magic sparks blue. Then she laughs harder as a croissant drops onto the coffee table.</p><p>Doyle’s smile looks slightly forced. Carolina can’t tell if he’s more offended by Church’s rudeness or just the terrible rhyme itself. “Ah. Perhaps a clearer incantation would serve you better.”</p><p>“Yeah, so you don’t get another treat instead of a treaty,” Carolina says.</p><p>Church scowls. His face flushes. “Whatever. Once this week's over, I'm never doing stupid incantations again.”</p><p>Doyle frowns at that.</p><p>Sensing an impending lecture, Carolina picks up the croissant. It’s still warm. She breaks it into three and offers a third to Doyle, who looks startled and pleased. Then she passes another third to Church. Maybe if he takes a few seconds to eat, he won’t totally annoy their quizmaster.</p><p>When she eats hers, she discovers she likes it. It’s got a buttery flavor.</p><p>The food doesn’t put Church into a better humor. He’s still scowling as he swallows his piece of the croissant. This time he says, “I need the Treaty of Paris in my hands, so bring it from wherever it…”</p><p>Carolina knows that look. It’s the look she suspects is on her face whenever she’s halfway through a stupid incantation and can’t think of a decent ending rhyme.</p><p>“Stands….”</p><p>There’s a pause, like Church’s magic is debating if that’s good enough, and then a flash of blue.</p><p>They all stare down for a long, puzzled moment.</p><p>“Well, it’s definitely closer?” Carolina offers, squinting at the book. It’s definitely some sort of treaty or agreement. There are eight signatures with eight red wax imprints, but despite the old-fashioned wax it’s clearly more modern than something from 1898.</p><p>Doyle leans closer, adjusting his glasses. “Ah. Definitely closer. This is <em>a </em>Treaty of Paris, just not the one I asked for. I believe this one is from 1951.”</p><p>“Did it have to do with Spain at all?” Carolina asks, and isn’t surprised when Doyle shakes his head.</p><p>Church, meanwhile, squawks out an indignant, “A Treaty of Paris? How many are there?”</p><p>“Oh, at least twelve in the nineteenth century alone!” Grey exclaims. “Paris, the city of love and treaties, apparently.” She giggles from where she’s standing at the kitchen door, amused.</p><p>Kimball’s expression is more neutral, her gaze moving between Church and Doyle.</p><p>Doyle clears his throat. “Yes. Specifics are always important in incantations.”</p><p>Carolina has been enjoying herself, but Church shoots a slightly panicked look towards the flash card she has in her lap. She knows he has no idea what year the treaty happened. She leans over and whispers, “You want the 1898 one.”</p><p>He looks grateful. Then he twitches his fingers, chews on his lower lip, and avoids everyone’s gazes. Finally he says, “I need the Treaty of Paris from 1898, so send it to me before it’s too late.”</p><p>Carolina breathes a sigh of relief as a much older treaty appears.</p><p>“Very good!” Doyle says, looking pleased. “Now, so long as you apply yourself for the rest of the week and hone those incantations, you won’t be so reliant on wordless magic.”</p><p>“In the meantime, send those treaties back before you get someone fired,” Kimball says dryly.</p><p>“Ah, yes.” Doyle gives Church an expectant look.</p><p>“Ugh.” Church wrinkles his nose. “Seriously? I didn’t seal the spells--” He stops when all of the adults stare at him. “Fine. Uh. Don’t want anyone to get the blame, so put these treaties back where they, uh, where they came.”</p><p>The two treaties vanish.</p><p>Church slouches low on the couch. “I hate that I’m saying this, but can Carolina and I get back to studying?”</p><p>“Of course,” Doyle says. “James, I shall see you tomorrow with another test. Remember, incantations only!” He gives the entire room an awkward bow, avoiding looking at Kimball, before he disappears in a flash of golden light.</p><p>“This will be an interesting week,” Grey says, looking delighted.</p><p>Church just groans.</p><p>“Let us know if you need any help with your homework,” Kimball says, placing a hand on Grey’s elbow and firmly steering her back into the kitchen.</p><p>Church glares down at the coffee table where the flashcards are all stacked, waiting to be read. Frustration tightens his jaw.</p><p>Carolina knows the feeling. She says, “It’s just a week.”</p><p>“Right,” Church says. He grabs a flashcard.</p><p>“Which President began the New Deal programs to help pull the country out of the Depression?”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Simmons sleeping in is weird. Not that Grif is really complaining. Simmons is one of those morning people who’s up by seven o’clock on Saturdays when Saturdays are clearly days for sleeping. Even when he was recovering after wearing himself out doing so much magic, he still tended to get up way too early.</p><p>The upside is that Grif usually gets an early breakfast, goes back to sleep while Simmons exercises, and then convinces Simmons to give him a second breakfast.</p><p>This Saturday, though, Simmons is still a motionless lump in his bed and it’s almost nine. Grif would assume that Simmons forgot his promise and overdid the experiments, but he got home on time last night, grumbling about having to make more flowers.</p><p>Grif finally gives into his curiosity and growling stomach.</p><p>“What?” Simmons mumbles when Grif pats his head with a paw.</p><p>“It’s almost nine, dude.”</p><p>“It is?” Simmons starts to sit up, blinking at the clock. His voice sounds weird, low and scratchy, like he’s been coughing.</p><p>“Yep,” Grif says. His curiosity grows as Simmons rubs at his eyes. Grif still doesn’t know much about mortal illnesses. Sure, Simmons had that concussion, and then there were those weeks he forgot what sleep was. But Grif doesn’t think he’s ever seen Simmons actually sick.</p><p>He pads across the bed and nudges Simmons’ elbow. “Breakfast might help,” he suggests. It certainly wouldn’t hurt.</p><p>Simmons gives him an amused look. “You just want food.”</p><p>Before Grif can confirm or deny this, Simmons’ nose wrinkles. In fact his entire face scrunches up. Simmons leans away, jerking his arm up, and then he sneezes loudly into the crook of his elbow.</p><p>The explosive sound makes Grif’s fur bristle in surprise. He digs his claws into the covers, and then gets distracted when he realizes one of his claws is stuck. He tries to untangle it as he mutters, “Warn a guy next time.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Simmons says, and sneezes again.</p><p>Grif finally gets his claw out of the fabric. “It’s fine. Just--” He looks up and forgets the rest of what he was about to say. He squints. He’s pretty sure it’s not the light filtering in through the window making Simmons look weird. He licks the tip of his nose. He wishes he knew more about mortal illnesses. He’s about ninety-nine percent sure this isn’t normal, but there’s that one bit of doubt. He licks his nose again, twitches his tail, and then asks in a fake casual voice, “So, uh. Mortal colds. Do they normally turn your hair blue or what?”</p><p>“What?” Simmons says blankly, and then a stray curl falls in front of his eyes.</p><p>A stray, bright blue curl.</p><p>He shrieks.</p><p>“So that’s a no,” Grif says, his ears going flat as Simmons half-sneezes, half-shrieks again.</p><p>“What is--” Simmons sneezes again.</p><p>Grif watches the bright blue darken to a navy blue.</p><p>Simmons bolts to the bathroom, wobbly on his feet, and yelps. “My hair!”</p><p>“Yeah,” Grif says, following him inside. He jumps up on the toilet seat and watches as Simmons grabs a fistful of his hair and tugs at it like he thinks he can wipe the color off. It doesn’t work. “I guess once you’ve done enough magic, you can get magically sick. Congrats, you’ve got witch flu.”</p><p>Simmons stares down at him, his eyes wide, and then goes back to gawking at himself in the mirror. “So my hair is just going to, to keep changing colors like this? Should I call Doctor Grey? Or--”</p><p>There’s a rising panic in Simmons’ voice that kills some of Grif’s amusement. He starts to pat Simmons’ arm before he realizes he doesn’t know if familiars can get the flu. He jumps back down to the tile. “Yeah, probably. I bet she’ll just tell you to drink tons of water and get some rest.”</p><p>Simmons frowns. “Do witches have any medicine or vaccines or--”</p><p>Grif snorts. “Sorry. Witches and mortals all have to deal with acne and the flu.”</p><p>Some of the alarm fades from Simmons’ expression, replaced by curiosity. “Really, acne and the flu? Are those--”</p><p>“Ask Grey.”</p><p>Simmons sneezes again. This time his hair turns teal.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When the phone rings, Grey is the one closest to it. She grabs it and chirps a hello. Then her eyebrows rise. “Well, hello, Richard. To what do we owe the pleasure?”</p><p>Carolina and Church exchange a look, but judging by Church’s confusion, he doesn’t know why Simmons would be calling.</p><p>Grey listens. Her expression flits between several emotions at once, before settling on curiosity. “Oh dear,” she says, sounding delighted. “What a fascinating development! And your general symptoms?” She listens for another moment, her smile widening. “Interesting. I could come and-- No?” Disappointment briefly clouds her face. “Very well. This flu burns through a witch’s magic, and is generally unpleasant but not often serious. Again, you are quite the curious case, so if you wished--”</p><p>She stops again, pursing her lips. “Well, since Leonard refuses to tell me a thing about your experiments, I don’t know how long it will last. For most witches the symptoms last two or three days and the recovery time another three to seven depending on the severity. In the meantime, treat this as you would any flu, with plenty of fluids and bed rest.”</p><p>“Mr. Simmons is sick?” Carolina asks when Grey hangs up.</p><p>Grey giggles. “Yes. With a magical flu.” She sighs, slightly wistful. “If only he’d let me--”</p><p>“He doesn’t want you poking at him,” Church says with a grimace. Then apparently what she says registers. To Carolina’s surprise, rather than looking sympathetic, he grins. “Wait, which flu?”</p><p>“The coloratus capillus strain.”</p><p>Church lets out a bark of laughter. “Maybe we should visit.”</p><p>“How did Mr. Simmons get magic flu?” Carolina asks, frowning. “And also, there’s magical flu?”</p><p>“Oh, there are all sorts of magical illnesses,” Grey says. “You’ve been quite lucky not to experience any of them! This one generally isn’t serious, though it leaves the witch low on magic and fairly uncomfortable for a few days!” She pauses, tilting her head. “As for how he was infected, he would have to have come into contact with an ill witch within the last twenty-four hours--”</p><p>Church’s laughter cuts her off. It starts as a small snicker this time, and then gets louder, until he’s almost fallen out of his seat. He wheezes, opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, and then descends into another laughing fit, tears in his eyes. He gets a sputtered, “Leonard,” out after a few seconds.</p><p>“Well, Leonard would be the most likely suspect,” Grey agrees. She makes a show of examining both Carolina and Church, the latter still laughing. “Neither of you are showing the obvious symptoms, so--”</p><p>“So Dad’s sick,” Carolina interrupts. She gets hit with that complicated bundle of emotions she’s been feeling since meeting Sabrina. The thought that her dad went radio silent for a year fights with the fact that he’s spending way more time with her than Sabrina’s dad is. She still hasn't asked her dad why. She doesn't know if she even will. Amid all those emotions, though, is worry, even if Church is still laughing. "We should check on him."</p><p>Church stops laughing long enough to snort. “<em>You</em> can. I’m not getting sick.”</p><p>“And I need to get to work,” Grey says. There’s a brief downward turn of her lips at that, like she’s contemplating skipping her shift to visit Simmons and Carolina’s dad, but apparently her work ethic wins out over her curiosity, because she says, “Give Leonard my well wishes.”</p><p>“I will, but, um, how?”</p><p>“The closet,” Church says. He wipes a hand across his eyes, still flushed from laughing so much. “Focus on him in a lab, take two rights and a left. You'll get there.” He snorts again. “You can bring him soup or something.”</p><p>“Soup,” Carolina repeats. She nods to herself, relieved. That’s something helpful she can do. She’ll bring her dad soup and crackers and make sure he gets plenty of water. “I can do that.”</p><p>“I was kidding,” Church says, blinking at her.</p><p>“I’m not,” she says. She wishes she had enough time for homemade soup, but magic it’ll have to be. She points at the table and focuses. A thermos appears, filled with chicken noodle soup. When she picks it up, it’s warm.</p><p>Church looks slightly envious. She has a feeling he’s going to be sulking about the incantation assignment the whole week.</p><p>He also said he wasn’t going with her, so she’s a little confused when he follows her up the stairs. She pauses halfway up, looking at him. “Are you coming?”</p><p>“Nah,” Church says. He hesitates. He crosses his arms against his chest, chewing on his lower lip for a second. “Look…” He trails off. “If Leonard tells you to leave, it’s about him, not you. Ignore him. He’s not infectious anymore, not if Simmons is showing symptoms too.”</p><p>Carolina’s about to ask him what he’s talking about when he turns away. He goes back down the stairs, trying to take them two steps at a time until he almost misses a jump. He catches himself on the railing and calls up, “Tell him he needs to stop being dumb and dramatic!”</p><p>Carolina almost tells him to follow his own advice. But her dad’s in the Other Realm, sick and probably uncomfortable. “I’m not telling him that,” she says instead.</p><p>Church stops at the bottom of the stairs and flashes a smirk. “Coward.”</p><p>Carolina makes a face back at him and then goes to the closet. The knob is cold against her fingers, especially after juggling the thermos. She takes a deep breath and fixes the image of her dad in her mind. That part is easy. The lab she’s not as sure about, but she imagines something like out of the old movies Kimball’s been showing something, with a mix of magic thrown in. Something with beakers and bubbling potions in cauldrons.</p><p>Then she opens the door and steps inside.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The kettle whistles.</p><p>Simmons stands up, and immediately regrets it. His head gets light and his thoughts fuzzy for a second, like when he was overexerting himself during the magic experiments. He spares another second to be annoyed that he’s sick now that he’s taking better care of himself, and then goes to make himself some tea.</p><p>Grif prowls around his feet. He’s been amused by Simmons’ predicament, but now his tail twitches and he says, “Don’t fall over.”</p><p>“I won’t,” Simmons says. His ears feel clogged. His voice sounds a little distant. “Just gonna get some tea and then go to sleep.” Hopefully this will only last a few more hours. Doctor Grey had said the flu burns through a witch’s magic and all this sneezing is probably burning through whatever residue is left from last night.</p><p>“Good,” Grif says, following him to the stove.</p><p>Simmons has just started steeping his tea when someone knocks on his door.</p><p>He stares down at Grif. “Do you think Doctor Grey--”</p><p>The knock comes again, and a familiar voice calls, “Anybody home?”</p><p>Oh, it’s worse than Doctor Grey. It’s his <em>landlord. </em></p><p>“Pretend we’re not here!” Simmons whispers at Grif, who looks ready to say something sarcastic. Before he can, a sneeze wrenches itself from Simmons’ mouth.</p><p>It’s loud enough that Mr. Hutch sounds a little worried when he says, “Uh, you okay in there?”</p><p>“Uh, just a second!” Simmons says. His voice cracks. He tries to think, but his thoughts slide away from him again. He bolts for the bathroom, hastily runs some water and gets his hair wet. Then he wraps his hair in a huge body towel.</p><p>He opens the door and forces a smile. “Uh, hi, Mr. Hutch.”</p><p>His landlord stares, and Simmons realizes too late that he’s still in his wife beater and periodic table boxers. He winces, rubbing at his arm. His landlord’s gaze tracks the gesture. “Sorry. Uh. Yeah. Coming down with something.”</p><p>“That’s too bad,” Hutch says, and then squints.</p><p>Simmons realizes he’s studying the makeshift turban. It’s already starting to unravel. Simmons grabs for it, but he knows he’s too late by the way Hutch’s features go slack with surprise.</p><p>“Your hair--”</p><p>Simmons panics. He tries to think up an excuse, but all his woozy brain provides is a weak,“I, uh, saw a gray hair?”</p><p>Hutch looks confused. “So you dyed it...blue.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Simmons says, flushing a little.</p><p>Hutch shakes his head. “Bought the wrong box?”</p><p>Simmons blinks at him, and then nods. It's a good excuse. Better than the stupid gray hair thing. </p><p>Hutch smiles at him. His gaze flicks back up to Simmons’ hair, and then he gives Simmons a slow, thoughtful look. “Don’t worry. I bet you’ll look good with silver hair.”</p><p>“Uh, thanks?” Simmons says, and then gets distracted as Grif steps on his foot and gives a pointed meow. He frowns down at Grif, who stares back. “Uh, so I was about to take a nap, so, uh.”</p><p>“Right,” Hutch says, rubbing at his jaw. “Anyway, I was just swinging by to tell you that the water will be off Monday while we replace some pipes.”</p><p>Grif makes a weird little noise, and for a half-second Simmons’ flu-addled brain is convinced Grif is going to blow his cover and say something. He doesn’t, just makes a grumbling sound, his tail twitching as he glares up at Hutch.</p><p>“Thanks,” Simmons repeats.</p><p>He can’t think of anything else to say, and Hutch takes pity on him. “Go get some rest. I’ve probably got some condensed noodle soup or something in my cupboard, so let me know if you need it.”</p><p>Simmons just nods. When he closes the door, he leans against it. “Why were you being weird at him?” he asks, hearing the peevish note in his voice.</p><p>“I wasn’t,” Grif mutters. He rubs up against the back of Simmons’ legs. “Come on. Drink that tea and go to bed.”</p><p>Simmons starts to answer him, and then feels the pressure that proceeds a sneeze. He almost bangs his head against the door with the force of this one. He wobbles. He wants to complain, but all that comes out is a pathetic, “Ugh…”</p><p>“Tea and sleep, dude,” Grif repeats.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tucker claims that playing video games relaxes him.</p><p>Sometimes Church gets it. Right now, though he doesn’t see why. After dying three times in a row, he throws his controller onto his bed with a frustrated grunt. So much for taking a break from studying. Maybe he should just put on one of his CDs. Or go back to the easy mode.</p><p>The console rattles on the dresser. Its lights flash. “Nice job,” it snickers.</p><p>Church narrows his eyes at it. He knows he had a bad string of fights. He doesn’t need this accidentally talkative console to tell him that. “Just ‘cause Carolina gave you as a gift doesn’t mean I can’t destroy you.”</p><p>“Wow, your threats are as unimpressive as your aim,” the console says, still amused.</p><p>Church bristles. “Like you could do better!”</p><p>The console rattles again, laughing. “Who do you think runs all the other characters in your games, genius? I can <em>definitely</em> do better.”</p><p>“Ugh,” Church says. He jabs a finger in the console’s direction. He won’t actually break it, not after Carolina’s hard work, but he can definitely mute the machine for a couple hours.</p><p>Nothing happens, except the console snickers again.</p><p>Church squints before he remembers the incantation only rule. He groans. “I hate this assignment,” he complains, though there’s only the console around to hear and he doubts he’ll get much sympathy.</p><p>There’s a sudden flash of golden light from the TV screen. A miniature Doyle waves at him and says, “There is a reason every witch must go through an entire week with this particular test. You can’t rely solely on your natural magic. Sometimes spoken spells are necessary.”</p><p>“Yeah, like when,” Church says sourly. Even as he asks, he remembers Carolina’s stupid prank war with Felix, and his quick, clunky spell to trap the knife. He'd blanked on a decent spell, mumbling something about a fox and a box. In retrospect it shouldn't have worked. It probably only had because of his desperation.</p><p>He misses Doyle’s answer, but he doesn’t miss Doyle teleporting himself out of the TV.</p><p>Doyle brushes at his suit, adjusts his glasses, and says, “Now, it’s time for another pop quiz.”</p><p>Church doesn’t bother to fake enthusiasm. He just sighs and gets up.</p><p>Doyle immediately waves him back to the bed. “All I need you to do is turn off the lights.”</p><p>Church waits for the rest of it, but Doyle just looks at him. “That’s it? Turn off the lights?”</p><p>Doyle nods.</p><p>Church squints. This feels too easy. “Seriously?”</p><p>“An incantation to turn off the lights, please.”</p><p>“Uh,” Church says, still suspicious but mostly confused. He looks up at his lights. This one shouldn’t be too hard. He just has to figure out the rhyme. Plenty of things rhyme with light. He won’t even have to break out Carolina’s dictionary. Bright. Night. White.</p><p>Pleased with himself, he says, “These lights are way too bright, so turn day into night.”</p><p>He’s surprised when Doyle’s eyes widen in alarm. “Ah, that is--” Doyle stops. He sighs as the lights stay on, his shoulders sagging in relief.</p><p>Church frowns down at his hand, curling and uncurling his useless finger. It hadn’t so much as sparked blue. “Come on! That totally rhymed!”</p><p>“Turn day into night,” Doyle says, giving a little cough. He taps a finger against the side of his glasses. “An, ah, interesting turn of phrase. Magic can sometimes be dangerously literal. Perhaps try something else that won’t potentially create an eclipse and panic the mortals?”</p><p>“Whatever,” Church mutters.</p><p>He squints up at the lights as he thinks. Maybe bright and light work better together. And that first part hadn’t been too bad. He mouths a couple ideas to himself, and finally says, “These lights are too bright, so turn off the lights.”</p><p>This time there’s the flash of blue. The room goes dark, except not really because it’s still early afternoon. The room gets dim, just the sunlight through the curtains.</p><p>“Well done,” Doyle says, sounding pleased. “Now turn them back on and your pop quiz will be concluded.”</p><p>“Uh, or I could not and just take a nap,” Church suggests. When Doyle just looks at him, he groans. “Fine.” So now he has to figure out how to get the lights back on. What rhymes with on? He groans again. Maybe he could cheat and use the same rhyme? He jabs his finger towards the ceiling.</p><p>“Now it’s less bright, so let there be light.”</p><p>When the lights come back on, there’s Doyle’s caught in the middle of a sigh.</p><p>“Hey, it got it done,” Church says, slightly defensive.</p><p>“Yes, it did,” Doyle says. He nods towards Church’s history book, temporarily abandoned for a gaming break. “Good luck with your studies.” With a golden glow, he disappears.</p><p>Church flops back on the bed. It’s going to be a long week.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Carolina steps into the closet and out into a laboratory.</p><p>She almost laughs when she sees the cauldrons in their organized rows, growing in size like that Goldilocks and the Three Bears story. They aren’t bubbling though. The entire place is quiet, with only an emergency light keeping it from total darkness.</p><p>There’s an entire wall covered with vials, bottles, and jars. When she wanders over, squinting in the faint light, the ingredients vary from familiar rosemary to stuff like a small vial that reads in her father’s careful handwriting ‘A tear from a selkie, freely given.’</p><p>What had Church said? Two rights and a left? He was probably being sarcastic, but for now she decides to follow the instructions. Worse case scenario is that she wanders around with her thermos and finally has to yell for her dad.</p><p>Carolina goes down one dimly lit corridor. At the first right, she comes to a door of polished wood. It looks old, and like the front door of a house instead of a laboratory door.</p><p>Opening it, she finds herself at the beginning of a foyer. If the laboratory is behind her, this is the house. The wooden floor is covered with a long, elaborate rug that, when Carolina pauses again to inspect, has symbols embroidered throughout it: the amphora, menorah, palm tree, and the star of David. There’s wallpaper too, but other than the rug, everything still feels impersonal. Grey’s house is cluttered with art and family photographs from former Halloween celebrations. There’s none here, not even one of the photographs of her grandparents that her dad showed her, just a lot of old-fashioned wallpaper.</p><p>She wonders about it even as she leaves the foyer and finds herself in a living room. There are a few thresholds. She doesn’t let herself linger this time, just goes for the one on the right.</p><p>“Carolina?”</p><p>Carolina stops, clutching the thermos. Her dad’s voice came from the left. When she looks at that threshold, she can see the edge of what’s probably a kitchen table. She heads in that direction instead, calling out an awkward, “Um, hi. I, uh, brought you soup.”</p><p>Then she actually gets to the kitchen entrance and stops dead. No wonder Church had laughed until he cried. Her dad’s hair, usually black with streaks of silver, is now a stunning bubblegum pink and styled like some old British king, elaborate ringlets that fall past his shoulders.</p><p>A disbelieving laugh bubbles up from her chest. She tries to swallow it back, but it escapes her anyway, along with a confused, “Doctor Grey said you have the flu!”</p><p>Her dad wears an unreadable expression. “Yes, the coloratus capillus strain.” There’s a pause, and then he sighs. His tone turns slightly grudging. “In layman’s terms it’s known as hairfluenza.”</p><p>“Oh,” Carolina says, trying not to laugh. It’s easier this time, because now that she’s over the shock of seeing his hair, she notices his pallor and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. There’s a still-steaming mug beside him. There’s also a bunch of papers spread out on the table, which she frowns at.</p><p>“Um. I brought soup,” she repeats, setting the thermos down on the table. “Doctor Grey says you should drink plenty of fluids and get some rest, so--”</p><p>“Carolina.”</p><p>She stops.</p><p>Just as Church predicted, her dad says, his voice hoarse and slightly nasally, “I assure you, this is unnecessary. I will be fine in a few days. If I am still feeling unwell Tuesday, I will let you know.”</p><p>He’s probably going to say more, except he interrupts himself with a sneeze. His hair changes, a sudden transformation from pink ringlets to a lime green pompadour.</p><p>Carolina bites her lip, two emotions swirling around in her chest. There’s amusement, because her dad looks ridiculous. Her fingers itch to make up a camera and take a photo for her mom. But there’s also exasperation, because her dad is clearly not resting, he’s working.</p><p>“I didn’t think Church was going to be right,” she says.</p><p>Her dad frowns. His hand half-rises, as though he wants to check the latest hair transformation. Then he grips the handle of his mug instead. “About what, might I ask?”</p><p>“He said you were going to tell me to go away.” She sets the thermos down in front of him, knowing he’s heard the firm thud by the way his gaze momentarily flicks downwards before his white eyes stare vaguely in her direction.</p><p>“Ah,” he says. His frown deepens. “I-- It’s not that I-- you have your studies and--”</p><p>Normally Carolina wouldn’t interrupt her dad, but his voice is so hoarse that it makes her own throat feel a little sore in sympathy. She cuts in with a matter-of-fact, “I’ll be okay. And Church already mentioned you’re not contagious.”</p><p>When her dad blinks at her, she adds, “I made you soup. Well, I magically made you soup. Which cupboard has the bowls?”</p><p>For a few seconds he doesn’t answer. Then the corner of his mouth twitches upwards and he waves a hand towards the cupboards with an air of amused defeat. “The top cupboard furthest to your left. You’ll find spoons in the drawer directly underneath it.”</p><p>“And glasses?” Carolina asks. “You should have some water too before you sleep.”</p><p>“Sleep?” The frown’s returned to her dad’s face. She can hear it in his voice even before she turns to look at him. He shakes his head. “Really, this is hardly necessary. I appreciate your concern, but it’s a simple cold with some...unusual side effects, I'm perfectly--”</p><p>He goes to stand and then stops halfway. He was already looking pale, now even that little color leaves his face. He sits back down in a hard, graceless movement and then blinks. His hands grope for the edge of the table and hold onto it.</p><p>“Fine,” he concludes weakly.</p><p>Carolina has a hand out, just in case he slides off his chair, but he just fumbles with his mug and lifts it to his lips, taking a very careful sip from it. A little of the color starts to return to his face, though he still looks wan.</p><p>She swallows back a sarcastic, ‘Yeah, you seem great,’ that sounds a lot like Church in her head. Then she stops herself from asking if he's okay, when clearly he's not. Instead she says, even more firmly than before, “Soup and water, and then some rest.”</p><p>This time he doesn’t disagree.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“I told you not to fall over.”</p><p>“Didn’t,” Simmons mumbles from the kitchen floor. “Sat down and then laid down.”</p><p>Grif would laugh, except Simmons looks half-dead. At first Simmons sneezing and his hair turning a bunch of different blues was funny. Now it’s not. Every sneeze makes Simmons look more exhausted.</p><p>Grif can feel the frustrated growl building in his chest, the worried thrashing of his tail. He paces around Simmons, his cat instincts wanting to curl up against him and purr anxiously even as he grumbles, “Nerd.”</p><p>Simmons just grumbles a wordless argument.</p><p>Grif keeps pacing. “We should call Grey. How about you get up and call her? Then you can have your love affair with the ground again.”</p><p>“It's nice and cool....”</p><p>Grif waits, but Simmons just closes his eyes. “Right. I'll call her.” He’s gotten a little better at using the phone, if just to make a lot of pizza orders with Simmons’ credit card, but he’s still not great at it. It takes him two tries and a misdial before he gets the right number.</p><p>Of course, he knows he has the right number because Grey’s chirpy voice says, “Thank you for calling the Grey household. No one is available--”</p><p>Grif hisses in frustration.</p><p>Below him, Simmons sneezes and then lets out a whining, “No,” as his hair darkens to a midnight blue. The whine turns into a hoarse cough. “Hate this and its stupid name….”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s a dumb name,” Grif agrees, keeping the worried edge out of his voice. He jumps back down. He hesitates, and then gives into his cat instincts enough to curl up against Simmons’ back.</p><p>Simmons keeps coughing though, a miserable sound, and Grif’s tail keeps twitching in time to each cough. Grif had hairfluenza once. Kai had set up a flash powder camera and then magicked the photographs from black and white into color. He’s pretty sure she has a photo album. It was totally unfair. Kai’s the one who does all the partying, but somehow he was the one who always got sick.</p><p>But when he’d had the flu, his hair had changed all the colors of the freaking rainbow, and from one style to another. Simmons’ hair hasn’t changed other than the color, which is stuck on blue. It’s weird. Maybe it’s because Simmons is mortal? But it also doesn’t matter, because every time Simmons sneezes, the magic wipes him out like when he was doing his first few spells. At this rate he’s going to get dehydrated or something.</p><p>Finally Grif gives up, giving Simmons a light head butt. “I’ll be back. Don’t pass out.”</p><p>Simmons mumbles what’s probably an agreement.</p><p>Grif bolts for the front door. If Grey isn’t around, he’ll just have to find someone else’s help.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Carolina tries not to stare too obviously as her dad takes his first taste of the soup.</p><p>He can’t see her, but he must be able to feel her gaze as she watches him swallow. He pauses afterwards, staring sightlessly down at his bowl. He looks a little surprised, she realizes, and had a belated thought that it might be weird if she tried to replicate his recipe exactly from memory.</p><p>She takes a sip of her own. It tastes right to her.</p><p>Her dad clears his throat, a slightly deeper sound at the moment. “Thank you for the soup.”</p><p>“You’re welcome,” she says, pleased. They both eat for a minute before Carolina’s curiosity gets the better of her. “I didn’t know there were magical illnesses, but Doctor Grey says there quite a few.”</p><p>“Yes,” her dad says. “Emily likely has an entire encyclopedia if you’d like to read up on the varieties. But all in all, most are simply inconvenient, such as this particular flu. From what we understand, the hair change from the coloratus capillus virus is a witch’s innate magic trying to burn out the virus from his or her system. Eventually either the virus will be destroyed or the witch’s body uses so much magic that the virus can no longer replicate and it dies. The witch takes a day or two to recover.”</p><p>He purses his lips. “While this one is irritating, I still prefer it over the other most contagious flu strain. That one is called the finger flu in layman’s terms, and when it preys upon a witch’s magic, the witch’s magic will sometimes, ah, transfer itself temporarily to someone nearby, generally a mortal.”</p><p>“Wait, you can accidentally transfer your powers to a mortal?” Carolina imagines someone like Caboose with magic. “That would be...interesting.”</p><p>“There are theories that it’s the body’s way of defending its magic from the virus, but yes. Interesting is an understatement.”</p><p>“Have you had the other flu? The finger one?”</p><p>“Thankfully, no, I have escaped that particular discomfort,” her dad says. He sounds a little relieved. Then he blinks. His brow creases. His relief changes to a slow confusion. “Wait.” He looks towards Carolina, or at least in her direction. “How did you know I was ill?”</p><p>“Uh, because Mr. Grif called and told us about Mr. Simmons.”</p><p>“What about him?” her dad asks blankly.</p><p>Carolina frowns. “That he was sick?”</p><p>Her dad’s expression turns even more confused.</p><p>“He's sick,” Carolina repeats. His confusion is contagious. “I mean, Doctor Grey took the call, but she knew it was hairfluenza, so his hair must be changing color too....”</p><p>She trails off as her dad reaches out for his notes. He’s half-muttering to himself, “He can be affected by magical illnesses? I didn’t foresee that as a possibility during these experiments, I need to--” He stops, apparently only then remembering he can’t see at the moment.</p><p>“You <em>need</em> to finish your soup and sleep,” Carolina says.</p><p>Her dad sighs. “I suppose I should take notes when my mind is clearer.” This is said with reluctance even as he reaches for his abandoned spoon.</p><p>When they finish their soup and her dad drinks one more glass of water, he stands. This time he does it slower. He doesn’t go white again, but he’s unsteady enough on his feet that Carolina positions herself next to him and asks, “Which way is your bedroom?”</p><p>Carolina doesn’t know what she expected of her dad’s bedroom, but it’s not this. The shelves straining with a lot of books aren’t a surprise, but the rest of it is. There are strange faded marks on the wallpaper that look like a bunch of small rectangular objects have been recently removed.</p><p>“I’ll be fine,” her dad says, standing beside a bed that’s smaller than she would’ve thought. Reluctance radiates off him, and Carolina knows he’s about to argue that he doesn’t actually need rest. “You don’t have to stay.”</p><p>He’s as bad as her mom, who also takes being sick as a personal insult. Carolina remembers, with a bittersweet pang in her chest, the last time her mom had had a cold. She’d been grumpy and constantly trying to get out of bed to check on her team.</p><p>“You’re not contagious anymore,” she reminds him. “And even if you were, I can handle the flu.”</p><p>“I would rather you not have to experience this,” her dad says a little dryly, but also with enough seriousness in his voice that Carolina blinks at him, surprised. “You had to endure more than enough mortal illnesses before you came into your powers, no need to endure a witch illness.”</p><p>“I didn’t get sick too much as a kid, did I?” Carolina asks. She tries to remember. “Ear infections and chickenpox, and colds sometimes.”</p><p>“Ah, chickenpox.” Her dad’s mouth twitches. “I must admit, I am glad that mortal illnesses’ names aren’t quite as, ah, literal as witch ones. If it had been a witch disease, you would have grown feathers…”</p><p>Carolina, remembering how her father had hovered when she had the chickenpox, can’t help but ask, “Did you think I was going to grow feathers?”</p><p>Her dad doesn’t immediately answer. Instead he fumbles with his glasses, setting them carefully down on top of a book at his bedside.</p><p>It’s a familiar book. Carolina glances curiously at <em>Frankenstein</em>, wondering why he’s reading it. Then she realizes her dad is avoiding the question, which means that yes, he <em>did</em> think she was going to grow feathers. She laughs.</p><p>Her dad’s lips quirk slightly in response, and then he says, “In my defense, you can see that witches can be a tad literal.”</p><p>“Right,” Carolina says, still amused. Then she makes her voice firm. “I’m staying. I’ll make you some more soup for dinner.”</p><p>Her dad doesn’t say anything for a moment. “If you insist,” he finally says.</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>Carolina leaves him to his rest. She’s going to make some more soup, but she also wants to clean up a little. And maybe look around. Just a little. She doesn’t want to invade her dad’s privacy too much, but maybe she can figure out what he’s been up to for the last year.</p><p>She makes the soup and puts it away in the fridge, then washes the bowls and spoons and sets them on the dish rack to dry. Then she goes to investigate. She’ll look at the lab later, but right now she wants to explore the house.</p><p>One of the first doors she tries takes her into a dimly lit room. When she turns on the lights, she realizes she’s in a display room. There are plaques on the wall decorated with cauldrons and inscribed with congratulations to the Church family as the most reliable cauldron makers in the Other Realm for the 1,500th year in a row. The room looks weirdly lopsided though, and after a moment Carolina realizes why. A lot of the awards have been taken out of the display cases and off the walls, set in piles on the counters and table in the middle of the room and apparently forgotten. It gives the room a half-finished air.</p><p>She picks something out of the first pile. It’s a wooden plaque, engraved with what looks like her dad accepting a scroll from another witch. The inscription reads <em>Leonard graduating from university</em>.</p><p>Why did he take this down? Carolina goes through more of the pile. There’s a scroll that congratulates her dad for his acceptance into the Academy of Science, and another one that gives him some award for valuable contributions to science.</p><p>She’s ending up with more questions than answers. But now it clicks in her head what feels off. Where are all the family photographs? She knows he at least has the ones he showed her, but there’s been no sign of them. She thinks of the weird rectangular spaces on the wall. Did he take them all down?</p><p>Carolina leaves the display room behind, frowning. She goes back into the living room and sits down on the sofa, resisting the urge to slouch like Church always does. She still slides a little on the leather. Her foot brushes something under the coffee table. When she looks, she realizes there’s a photo album.</p><p>Curious, she opens it.</p><p>The first photograph is one of those daguerrotypes, sepia-toned as her grandparents and her dad pose stiffly for the camera, their expressions unsmiling. Hadn’t those old cameras taken ages to do? No wonder they all look so grim. When she flips to the next page, though, she laughs. Her dad’s not in this one. Instead her grandparents, still in their old-fashioned finery, are posed in a mock-embrace, making faces at the camera.</p><p>In another, this one black and white and maybe from the early twentieth century, her grandmother has her dad’s tie between her fingers. Whatever her grandmother is saying has caught her grandfather in mid-laugh, his head thrown back. Her dad looks almost exactly like he does now, except Carolina doesn’t think she’s ever seen that expression on his face before. She recognizes it though. It’s the look you get when your parents are embarrassing you. She guesses some things don’t change whether you’re twenty or a thousand.</p><p>Maybe her dad took all the photos down because he was embarrassed.</p><p>She keeps flipping through the album. Her grandparents really do seem to love photography. There are serious photos, but also a lot of silly ones. Also, she can tell her dad didn’t arrange the album. There’s no rhyme or reason to the order. It’s not chronological besides that first daguerrotype.</p><p>Then she gets to one that makes her almost drop the album. She clamps a hand over her mouth, muffling her giggles so she won’t wake up her dad.</p><p>The photograph is black and white. She has no idea when it was taken, but it doesn’t matter. Her dad is posed, still serious, beside a bubbling cauldron. His hair looks like something the hairfluenza would come up with, sharply parted in the middle and then poking sharply upwards, like wings or just awkward triangles of carefully positioned hair.</p><p>It looks <em>ridiculous</em>.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Told you not to pass out.”</p><p>The tile is cool against Simmons’ cheek. It doesn’t help with his headache or the way his entire body aches. He keeps his eyes shut, and makes a protesting noise, because he was <em>sleeping</em>, not passed out. There’s a difference. One he’ll explain when his throat doesn’t feel filled with miniature knives every time he swallows.</p><p>There’s a contemplative, “Hm,” sound above him that definitely isn’t Grif.</p><p>Simmons forces his eyes open. It takes his vision a second to focus, and another second to register the looming face above him. Then he shrieks. Jerking backwards, he hits his back against the cupboard.</p><p>Locus frowns down at him.</p><p>“What Simmons means is thanks for coming over,” Grif says, sounding amused. He must not be that amused, though, because his tail is thrashing and he’s staring at Simmons.</p><p>Watching Grif prowl around Locus’ legs and then make a partial semicircle around Simmons makes him dizzy, so Simmons closes his eyes again. Locus is in his apartment, which means Grif must’ve invited him. Which doesn’t make sense, because why would Grif invite him?</p><p>There’s the sound of running water.</p><p>When Simmons forces his eyes back open, Locus has a glass in his hand.</p><p>Simmons squints at it. His first hazy thought is that now’s the perfect time to slip poison into his drink. His second thought is that Grif is watching everything like a hawk and would probably notice something like that. His third is to suspect that this flu is messing with his brain.</p><p>“Here,” Locus says, offering the glass.</p><p>“Uh,” Simmons squeaks out. “Okay.” He takes the water. He drinks one sip after another, slow and careful, because the dizzy feeling is rapidly turning to queasiness.</p><p>When he’s finished, Locus takes the glass from him and sets it up on the counter and out of sight. Then Locus bends, still frowning, his hand outstretched.</p><p>Simmons stares at the hand. “Uh.”</p><p>“Do you think you can stand?” Locus asks. It’s hard to get a read on his tone.</p><p>Simmons opens his mouth. Closes it. “Uh,” he repeats.</p><p>Grif stops pacing and gets up against Simmons’ arm, pawing at his elbow. There's no extended claws, but the gesture is forceful, and so is Grif's voice as he says, “Let Locus help. Unless you want to eat on the floor.”</p><p>Simmons almost considers it, but he feels gross enough. Also Grif will never let him live it down if he does. He grabs Locus’ hand. “Sorry,” he mumbles, wincing as he realizes how much he’s been sweating.</p><p>Locus’ expression doesn’t change. He just lifts Simmons to his feet. Simmons isn’t a small guy, but Locus looks like he’s barely trying as he helps him upright.</p><p>Simmons drops into the nearest chair, letting go of Locus’s hand as quickly as possible. He wipes both hands on his wife beater and then freezes as he realizes he’s still in his boxers. He’s sweaty and gross and sick and in his pajamas, and he hates today so much.</p><p>Grif jumps up on the table. “Locus has soup.”</p><p>Locus nods in agreement. “I don’t know if feeding a cold, starving a fever is true for mortals, but here.” He has a tupperware bowl that he opens and then sets in front of Simmons. A spoon appears too, as if by magic, though Simmons knows Locus doesn’t have magic anymore.</p><p>Simmons can almost smell the spices.</p><p>“Eat it,” Grif says, nudging at him again, and then hisses in surprise when Locus picks him up and sets him on the other side of the table. “Hey!”</p><p>Locus just looks at him.</p><p>Simmons picks up his spoon. All his senses feel dulled by this stupid flu, but he can taste some of the spice when he tries the soup. A few more swallows, and his eyes start watering. He pauses to cough into his elbow. Then he realizes how that might look.</p><p>“It’s good!” he says hastily, not wanting to offend Locus.</p><p>Locus doesn’t respond, but Grif snorts.</p><p>Simmons gets about halfway through the soup before he can feel another sneeze start to build. He leans back in his chair, half-bracing himself for the exhaustion and dizziness that will follow in the sneeze’s wake.</p><p>Locus’ expression finally changes when Simmons sneezes. Or at least his eyebrows move, shooting up in surprise.</p><p>“Don’t tell me,” Simmons croaks out grumpily once the room stops spinning. “Still blue.”</p><p>“Still blue,” Grif says. He’s been sitting watching Simmons eat, but now he gets up, pacing on his side of the table. His tail keeps thrashing. “I don’t get it. Why are you even sick with this? Grey said it burns through a witch’s magic, and you don’t--” He almost walks off the table’s edge.</p><p>“Wha…?” Simmons mumbles, trying to focus on him. It’s hard when all he wants to do is put his head down next to the soup and sleep. He fights it, but Grif’s face blurs, and he feels his chin start to dip slowly towards the table.</p><p>He falls asleep before he can hear Grif’s answer.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Church is bored. Carolina hasn’t come back, Grey and Kimball are at work, and both Tucker and Caboose are doing family stuff. And he’s tired of his gaming console making fun of him.</p><p>He’s desperate enough to pick up one of the flashcards Carolina made. “What was the name of the treaty that ended the Spanish-American War?” he reads. Okay, he’s got this. It has to be a capital, right? All important crap happens in capitals. He tosses the flashcard back onto the bed with a muttered, “Stupid Treaty of Madrid….”</p><p>He’s definitely hit rock bottom with his boredom, if he’s actually considering <em>studying</em>.</p><p>What else can he do besides actual homework? He glances around the room. His eyes fall on the camera on his dresser. Right. He’s got a camera, and he happens to know a witch whose hair is probably an amazing shade of purple at the moment.</p><p>Bugging Leonard sounds much more fun than history.</p><p>He smirks as he strolls into the closet.</p><p>The smirk lasts right up until he finds himself in Leonard’s lab. He stares around, everything familiar and unfamiliar all at once, and he realizes he didn’t think this all the way through.</p><p>The lab hasn’t changed much. There’s no used up ritual circle, no unconscious Leonard, but a flashback still threatens anyway, non-existent smoke burning his throat. Church squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, like he can rattle the memories out of his head.</p><p>The flashback doesn’t happen, the sense memory receding after a couple of swallows, but he’s not taking any chances. He’s just going to get the photo and go. He bolts for the corridor that’ll get him to the adjacent house. If Carolina’s had her way, Leonard is down for a nap.</p><p>He makes a beeline for Leonard’s bedroom, clutching his camera. He glances up at the bare walls, all family mementos packed away somewhere, which is what Church pretty much expected. He’s a little relieved. No photos to slam him into a new flashback.</p><p>There’s no sign of Carolina.</p><p>When Church quietly opens the door to Leonard’s bedroom, Leonard is in bed, asleep. Church stares in growing delight at the goofy striped pajamas, the plum stripes managing to perfectly match his short plum-colored curls. Even his goatee is plum.</p><p>Church bites his lip, trying not to laugh. He can feel it building in his stomach, so he brings the camera up, zooms in on Leonard, and takes a picture.</p><p>He only remembers the flash when the light illuminates the room and Leonard startles awake with a confused noise.</p><p>“Oops,” Church mutters, taking a hasty step back into the hallway.</p><p>Then he yelps as Carolina grabs his elbow. “Church!” she hisses at him. She’s trying to look stern, but mostly failing, a tremor of laughter in her voice when she asks, “What are you doing?”</p><p>Church glances at the camera and then back at her. “Was that a real question, or--”</p><p>“<em>Church</em>.”</p><p>Church grins at her. “What?”</p><p>“He needs his rest,” she whispers. The stern look is melting away. She keeps biting her lip.</p><p>“Yeah, and I got the photo, so we’re all set.” He wiggles the camera at her, smug with his success. “Come on, don’t you want this sweet, sweet memory of his hair? I’m thinking we enlarge the photo, make it poster size. It’ll be perfect next to my Superunknown one--”</p><p>“Church,” Carolina whispers, but the corner of her mouth is twitching.</p><p>“Really show off those great curls--”</p><p>“Church,” Carolina repeats, a little louder, and then visibly chokes down a laugh, her cheeks going pink.</p><p>Church grins, clasping the camera to his chest. He says, mock-solemn, “It will be a cherished memory.”</p><p>“Stop,” Carolina says, but this time a giggle escapes.</p><p>A dry voice interrupts them. “If you truly wish for me to rest, you might take your conversation to the kitchen.”</p><p>Church turns.</p><p>Leonard’s sitting upright, blinking blindly in their direction. For a second Church thinks Leonard is going to spoil his fun, wave his hand and make the camera disappear into thin air. Then Church registers the faint air of resigned amusement.</p><p>“Can’t blame me for wanting evidence,” Church says with a grin.</p><p>Leonard raises an eyebrow. “I feel it’s pertinent to mention that your mortal friends might have questions if you indeed turned the photograph into a poster.”</p><p>“Aw, crap,” Church mutters. He imagines trying to figure out an explanation for Tucker and Caboose. Somehow he doesn’t think shrugging it off as a prank would cut it. He narrows his eyes at Carolina’s fake consolatory shoulder pat. “Okay, framed photo it is.”</p><p>Carolina laughs again before she gets herself under control. “Come on,” she says, taking Church’s elbow and tugging at him. He digs in his heels, though he knows she’ll win with her stupid jock muscles. “He needs to rest. You can help me make some more soup.”</p><p>She pauses. She keeps her grip on his arm but sudden mischief lights her face. “Wait, you have to do incantations. What rhymes with crackers? Or soup?”</p><p>Church makes a face. Why did she have to remind him? “You’re hilarious.”</p><p>Carolina grins at him.</p><p>This time he doesn’t resist when she tugs at his arm. He glances over his shoulder at Leonard, who’s still sitting upright. He feels a smirk spread across his face, knows it’s in his voice when he calls, “Love that you color-coordinated the outfit with your hair, Leonard.”</p><p>“I did what?” Leonard says, his hand going to his hair.</p><p>Church laughs. “I’ll get you a copy of the photo!”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Simmons almost faceplants into his soup.</p><p>Only Locus’ quick grab for the container prevents it.</p><p>It’d be funny, except Grif remembers Simmons passing out before. He scrambles over to him, starts to stick his nose in Simmons' ear and yell at him to wake up, when hands grab him around his waist again and pull him away. “Dude!” Grif hisses, squirming in Locus' grasp and fighting against the stupid cat instincts that want to bring out the claws.</p><p>“You won't help by panicking,” Locus says evenly.</p><p>“I’m not--” Grif can hear a yowl building in his throat and stops. He licks his nose, bristling all over. The only thing that keeps him from wiggling out of Locus’ grip and getting back to Simmons is the fact that he can see how Simmons is breathing slow and even. “We gotta figure this out. Look at him! Every stupid sneeze is messing him up, and Grey isn’t answering her phone, and--”</p><p>Locus frowns. “There’s nothing to do but let it pass on its own. It will burn through his magic eventually--”</p><p>“He doesn’t <em>have</em> magic!” Grif yells. Locus lets go and he starts pacing again, turning in a tight circle since he can’t get closer to Simmons. His tail is thrashing so much he almost hits himself in the face with it. “He just uses magical fumes and ley lines or whatever!”</p><p>“Ley lines,” Locus repeats.</p><p>“Yeah, and there’s definitely not one here. I’d know. One of the few benefits to being a stupid familiar, with my stupid paws that can’t even get Simmons water or-- he should be done with any leftover fumes from last night, and there’s no magic her--”</p><p>Grif stops. He stares up at the ceiling. A suspicion hits him like a ton of bricks. “Crap. The wards.”</p><p>Locus looks at him, clearly not understanding.</p><p>“Uh.” Grif tries to figure out how to explain. It’s bigger magic than he understands. “Leonard made some wards so the Council wouldn’t be able to spy on us. You know, figure out I’m talking to Simmons and he can do magic. You know. Little things.”</p><p>Locus’ eyebrows shoot up again.</p><p>“We should get him out of here, see if it works.” Grif stares at Simmons, frustrated. “I mean, you should get him out. I can’t do it.” He can’t do anything. Can’t carry Simmons. Can’t create food. Can’t do anything except ask other people for help.</p><p>His thoughts derail as Locus bends and hauls Simmons out of his chair. He stares, watching Locus heave Simmons over his shoulder in a dead man’s carry. Simmons mumbles something incomprehensible, lost under Grif’s baffled, “Uh, what are you doing?”</p><p>Locus blinks. He looks confused by the question. “You said to get him out of here.”</p><p>“Uh, I mean, yeah….”</p><p>“We’ll take him to my apartment.”</p><p>“Right,” Grif says slowly. Well, he guess their neighbors can’t think Simmons is any weirder, if anyone sees. And he doesn’t see any other choice, besides calling Grey’s house again or the hospital.</p><p>They get a few steps out of the apartment before Locus stops. “Grif.”</p><p>“What?” Grif asks, still moving as he circles Locus’ feet and tries to get a better look at Simmons’ face. He’s only half-paying attention to Locus. Getting out of the apartment probably isn’t an instant fix, but Grif still stares, trying to figure out if Simmons is waking up or not. Then he notices Locus’ expression. “Too close?”</p><p>Locus just starts walking again. This time Grif keeps a few steps back, watching Simmons’ blue hair wave with every jostled movement.</p><p>Simmons stirs briefly, or at least mumbles again as Locus carries him up the stairs. He swings a little from side to side with every step. He doesn’t shriek with embarrassment though, so clearly he’s not awake enough to figure out that Locus is hauling him around like a sack of potatoes.</p><p>Grif has been in Locus’ apartment plenty of times now, but it’s always a little disorienting. The apartments are all furnished with the exact same furniture. That’s where the similarities end though. Simmons’ apartment has diplomas on the wall and bookshelves. The only thing that tends to vary for Locus is occasionally evidence for whatever new mortal job he’s failing at this week.</p><p>“What job are you doing now?” he asks, mostly to distract himself as Locus carries Simmons into the bedroom.</p><p>“Selling ad space for the Westbridge newspaper,” Locus answers. From his expression, he’s not enjoying whatever that is. He sets Simmons down carefully on his bed, and then frowns, seeming to realize that it’d be pretty complicated to get him under the covers. “I have a spare blanket.”</p><p>As soon as Locus leaves the room, Grif jumps up on the bed. He peers anxiously at Simmons, but he can’t tell if he’s looking better or if it’s just Grif’s being stupidly hopeful.</p><p>Simmons’ lashes flutter. His eyes half-open. “Huh?” he mumbles drowsily, blinking nearsightedly at his surroundings. He doesn't immediately sneeze, which Grif is going to take as a good sign. He mostly just looks tired and confused.</p><p>Grif tucks himself up against Simmons’ hip. He debates actually explaining his theory, because Simmons would get a kick out Grif trying to do science with cause and effect and all that crap. But even if he’s not sneezing, Simmons still looks pale and drained.</p><p>“Go back to sleep.”</p><p>“Kay,” Simmons says. His eyes close. His arm curls around Grif, half-tucking him into the crook of his elbow, and then his breathing evens out again.</p><p>Grif stays pressed up against Simmons, listening to his slightly stuffy breaths. He needs to figure out a plan if this doesn’t work. They’ll call Grey again, and if she isn’t home, then screw it, they’ll call the hospital and tell her there’s an emergency.</p><p>Locus doesn’t say anything when he returns with a blanket. He doesn’t have to. The dude has a terrible poker face.</p><p>Grif stares at him, daring him to try and move him.</p><p>After a few seconds, Locus gives a little nod, like Grif’s said something.</p><p>Then Simmons sneezes.</p><p>Grif almost levitates off the bed in surprise. A worried hiss escapes him before he looks up and watches the blue deepen to purple. Grif has no idea what to make of it. Is it a good thing? It’s probably a good thing. It’s maybe a good thing.</p><p>He studies Simmons’ hair. It’s sweaty and plastered to his forehead, darkening the purple, but as he looks there’s a gleam of familiar red. A relieved purr builds in his chest. There’s a single strand of Simmons’ normal hair color. This is definitely a good thing.</p><p>Grif relaxes. He resettles himself against Simmons’ side.</p><p>That’s when his stomach pinches at him. He hasn’t had lunch. No, he hasn’t had lunch or breakfast, not even a swallow of the soup that turned Simmons’ face bright red, Grif realizes with a start. He’s <em>starving.</em></p><p>The bed’s comfortable, though, and Simmons is warm and purple-haired next to him. It feels like way too much effort to actually get out of bed and wheedle Locus into feeding him. And even if Grif hasn’t eaten recently, he also hasn’t had a nap. It’s a tough choice between two priorities, but the nap wins out.</p><p>Grif curls up a little tighter and falls asleep to the sound of Simmons’ breathing.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Simmons wakes himself up with a sneeze.</p><p>Even half-asleep he braces for the dizzy feeling that always follows. Instead, the opposite happens. His brain feels a little less stuffed with cotton, and some of the aching in his body eases.</p><p>He opens his eyes, confused.</p><p>Grif is curled up against him, seemingly asleep until Simmons starts to sit up. Then he opens one eye. Satisfaction radiates off him. “Feeling a little better?”</p><p>“A little, yeah,” Simmons says. He looks around, disoriented. This isn’t his bedroom. It looks almost exactly like his bedroom did when he moved into his apartment. The only sign that someone lives here is a glass of water on the bedside table. Simmons is suddenly aware of his dry throat. Reaching for the water, he asks, “Where are we?”</p><p>“Leonard owes you, dude,” Grif says. “First he gets you sick, then his wards made you worse. At least Locus could carry you to his place. I think he’s making more soup, if you’re hungry.”</p><p>Simmons blinks at Grif. “The wards.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Grif sits up, stretching. “So, food?”</p><p>Simmons’ mind feels clearer, but still sluggish. He tries to process Grif’s words. “So I was, or the virus was...uh, pulling magic from the wards. So that’s why I was still sick. That’s interesting.” His fingers briefly itch for his notebook before a new thought slowly forms. He frowns. “But Locus…. He didn't know about the wards, right? So...you figured it out?”</p><p>Grif pauses mid-stretch. “Uh, I guess.” His ears twitch. “But seriously, food. I’ll go tell Locus you’re awake. And looking slightly less purple.”</p><p>“Okay,” Simmons says, watching Grif jump off the bed.</p><p>Then what Grif says actually registers.</p><p>“<em>Purple?!</em>”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Have a good weekend?” Niner asks, leaning against the lockers.</p><p>“It didn’t last long enough,” Church grumbles, shuffling by.</p><p>Niner gives him a look. “What’s his problem?”</p><p>“Uh, I think the history test,” Carolina says. She watches him almost fall into the opposite lockers as Caboose bounds up to him and slaps him on the back. He’s been grumpy all morning, especially after Grey threatened to drag him out of bed. If he could’ve gotten away with faking hairfluenza, she suspects he would’ve done it.</p><p>Niner looks a little more sympathetic. “Yeah, okay. So what’d you do this weekend?”</p><p>“Study, mostly,” Carolina says. She’s about to say more when she sees a familiar profile. “Uh. Be right back.” She scurries through the crowd, keeping her eyes on Mr. Simmons.</p><p>“Mr. Simmons!”</p><p>He looks over at the sound of his name. His hair looks normal. When she studies him, he looks a little tired but better than her dad had looked when she checked in on him on Sunday. He somehow looks better than Church, who clearly wants to go back to bed and avoid history class. Simmons smiles at her. “Hi, Carolina.”</p><p>“You’re feeling better?” She’s a little surprised. She thought Grey had said something about the flu usually lasting a few days. Then again, that’s for witches.</p><p>“Oh, yeah. Saturday was…” Simmons pauses, grimaces slightly. “Rough. But, uh, I felt better after sleeping most of Sunday.” He glances around at the passing students, but no one’s paying any attention. He still lowers his voice. “I hope your dad feels better soon.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Carolina says. She keeps the awkwardness out of her voice. She has mixed feelings about Simmons working with her dad. She’s happy that he’s getting to do magic, since he loves it so much more than Carolina does, but she gets hit with the thought that her dad came to Westbridge first for Simmons and second for her.</p><p>She’s relieved when the warning bell for homeroom rings. She starts to back up, giving Simmons a hasty wave. “Glad you’re feeling better!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>Fun triva fact:</strong> The wigs for Leonard and Simmons became a running joke behind the scenes. If you've watched any blooper reels for season three and onward, you'll have seen a few involving them! So many serious scenes ruined by someone's wearing one of the wigs behind the cameras like a jerk. It's hard to choose a favorite wig, but mine has to be the bubblegum pink one!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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